


Other Doors, Other Rooms

by neeve_fic (neevebrody), neevebrody



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Backstory, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neevebrody/pseuds/neeve_fic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/neevebrody/pseuds/neevebrody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It wasn't all fighting, or the military."  Ronon said after a while, after long minutes of listening to surf that was loud enough to command attention, but near silent in its beauty. "Sateda was artisans, painters, poets.  Our villages had libraries and halls where they kept artifacts – pieces of Sateda's history.  Who knows if any of it survived?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Other Doors, Other Rooms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caersmane](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=caersmane).



> Written for [](http://caersmane.livejournal.com/profile)[**caersmane**](http://caersmane.livejournal.com/) for the [](http://satedan-grabass.livejournal.com/profile)[**satedan_grabass**](http://satedan-grabass.livejournal.com/) John-Ronon thing-a-thon using her prompt: Satedan culture particularly some of the games they used to play. *The poem used near the end is a mash-up of "Trench Warfare" by David Lewis Padget.

"Mine's bigger."

Sheppard kept his hands on the jumper controls, but turned and showed one raised eyebrow.

"The board," Ronon replied, grinning and jerking his head back to indicate the surfboards stowed in the cargo area. They were headed for Eraas. Sheppard said the Eraans had been trading partners during the early years of their expedition. Ronon remembered intel about cullings and most of the population near the coast disappearing. The rest of the settlements had been moved, their people convinced the land was cursed. Apparently, what remained was a nice stretch of beach and some killer waves, and Sheppard was going to teach him to surf.

"Longboards are better for beginners," Sheppard explained. "Trust me, you'll have more fun if you can actually get up on the damn thing. Try and start out with a smaller one and you'll only get frustrated and never want to surf again. When you're a little more skilled, like me, you can move to the shorter boards, maybe even learn a few trick moves."

Ronon grunted. "What happened to the others?"

"Last minute change of plans. Teldy was heading up a team to escort a couple of climatologists to check on the new research camp on P6Y-859. Bascombe was on the same detail, so Lorne opted for another time, when some of the other officers could come along."

"Your military has the dumbest rules."

Sheppard reached over and brought up the HUD. "Won't get an argument from me," he said, looking at the display. "But they do have their reasons and sometimes you just gotta play the other guy's game."

"Still dumb. Did you know Teldy once surfed competitively?"

Sheppard squared his shoulders, chin jutting out a little. "Huh… well, she's a California girl, makes sense." Ronon thought he made too much show out of paying attention to the sensors. "I hear her and Banks hang out some."

Ronon turned back to the tops of trees disappearing beneath them. "So?"

"Nothing. I know you said things didn't work out with Keller, even though I think if you turned on the 'ol Dex charm—"

"She's interested in somebody else," Ronon said, wishing Sheppard would leave it alone.

"Oh. Who?"

"Somebody that's not me, okay?"

"All right. Touchy subject—I get it. But listen, you can't let that stop you."

"Who says it's stopping me." Ronon turned and eyed Sheppard, hoping his look would put this conversation to rest.

"Nobody. I just think it's time you—you know—"

"I'm here, aren't I? We're gonna have fun, right?"

"That we are. Because shutting yourself off—being married to your job isn't the way to go."

"I thought you said you weren't any good at this relationship thing."

John turned to him. "I'm not."

"Then why should I listen to you?"

Sheppard nodded. "Right, you shouldn't." He paused, then added, "But if you were going to listen to me, you should do it because I'm your friend."

Ronon grinned when Sheppard wasn't looking anymore. They were nearing the coastline; a blue horizon stretched out in front of him for what seemed like miles.

"You're gonna love this place," John said, but Ronon barely heard him.

~~~

"Figure we'll camp out here, maybe do a little night surfing." Sheppard had parked the jumper in a cleared area just past the trees with a short walk to the dunes. "Did you see those swells? And wait 'til you see the moonrise here… We're gonna have a blast."

The ground was scraggly turf and lots of sand. "Too bad McKay volunteered for that mission with Keller," Ronon said, feeling the bite of the words. "He'd love this."

Sheppard tossed him one of the single-man tents and some other gear. "Yeah, right. I can live without a lecture on how many future generations I'm dooming to annihilation because of UV radiation, thank you. Or the constant FYIs on the physics of surfing. Takes all the fun out of it."

They made short work of setting up camp and gathered wood and brush for a fire. Beyond the break lay a wooded area that looked as if it might have been kept up at one time, but was now overrun with weeds. Saplings dotted the ground beneath the canopy like unruly offspring.

After a dinner of MRE beef stew, the two sat near the fire. A warm breeze rolled off the beach and the sound of the surf provided something to fill the gaps in their conversation. A cooler sat partially buried in the sandy ground off to their side, filled with beer and some experimental fake ice pellets from the science department. They were furthering science by giving it a test run, Sheppard had said while he packing it. As a stand-by, there were traditional cooling alternatives in the jumper.

"Is this what you drink on Earth with friends to have a good time?" Ronon asked. He turned his can up and poured the last few swallows to the ground.

"That is the king of American beer."

"It's weak."

"So you can drink more—party longer."

Ronon snorted. "Why drink more when you could just drink better?"

Sheppard stopped before taking another sip of his. "That's just not the way we do things," he sniffed.

"In Sateda, we had a brew called Lorangu. Each village had its own version. Some added fruit to the processing, others fermented with spices." He grinned at the face Sheppard made. "The success of the brew depended on the maker's process, the size and shape of the vessel, fermenting time. Highlight of the harvest season in the rural areas – me and my friends used to make a trip of it – travel from village to village sampling the first pours."

"Sounds like fun."

"Food, drink, women… it definitely wasn't boring." How many times had he woken up face-planted in some field or other, never sure if some animal had pissed on him until they were traveling along in the hot, high heat of the day and he couldn’t stand to be near his own body? Or been lucky enough to spend the night in a loft or some other frilly room, inside the cool slide of real linens cast with the delicate scent of flowers like a ballast between the sinful curve of a peaches and cream spine and the musky perfume of silken thighs. Ronon grinned, remembering, feeling the pull of it between his legs.

"We do have beer like that—a meal in itself—totally nutritionally sound, but it leaves you with a helluva head the next day. It's not exactly an activity type of brew. Slows you down too much and tends to hang around a while. And that," he said, lifting the red, white and blue aluminum can, "is why we have this."

"In training, we'd sweat this out in one exercise," Ronon snorted.

"That's my point."

~~~

"It wasn't all fighting, or the military." Ronon said after a while, after long minutes of listening to surf that was loud enough to command attention, but near silent in its beauty. "Sateda was artisans, painters, poets. Our villages had libraries and halls where they kept artifacts – pieces of Sateda's history. Who knows if any of it survived?"

"How do you mean? I thought everything was destroyed?"

He squared his jaw. "Not everyone stayed to fight."

"Deserters?"

"Not much of that. People who claimed to be helping with the relocation—there were rumors they'd ransacked museums and galleries and used their false faces to save themselves, even make a profit."

Sheppard said nothing; he seemed satisfied with nursing his beer, which was a wise move, Ronon thought. The last thing he wanted was a discussion about Kell and what Sheppard once referred to as blind devotion. Because then Ronon would have to say he could buck authority with the best of them and Sheppard would just sit there pouting and they'd both end up not talking and drinking too much.

"Families, loved ones – the ones we tried to save—they were supposed to be the key to Sateda's survival. Our homeworld was more than just land. Even if anything is left, no one seems to care. To them, we're just another world defeated by the Wraith, and for thieves and traitors, there are too many places in Pegasus to hide."

He poked at the outer edges of the fire with his foot, Sheppard's stare inching over his skin. "So, we gonna try surfing tonight or what?" Ronon asked, finally looking up.

Sheppard turned his head toward the beach and seemed to be pondering the possibility. The roll and crash of the waves had almost become white noise, mesmerizing and much too soothing.

"Nah, best to get some sleep and get a good start early. This moon is one thing, but we'll need better light so I can show you the basics – proper footing, basics of the board."

Sheppard had been right, Eraas' moon was triple the size of the largest of Atlantis' and the light from it washed across the dunes and out to the ocean – to the furthest point Ronon could see. It seemed like enough light; the only difference was its color. "There's plenty of—" He stopped and jerked his head to the right, hand going for his gun at the same time. Peering back toward the stand of trees, he turned his head slowly side to side.

"What?"

Ronon stuck his hand up and whispered, "Hear that?"

"There's no one out here, but I bet there's all kinds of small animals running around."

Ronon lifted his head to breathe in the night air, picking up nothing but the salt-laden breeze, wood smoke, and the fresh green of the trees cooling down from their day in the sun. "Maybe you're right," he conceded.

"Of course, I'm right." John motioned to the cooler. "Grab another beer and let's just enjoy the quiet for a change. No alarms, no citywide, nothing we _have_ to do."

Ronon set the safety on his blaster and reached for a beer. "You're just lazy," he said, cracking open another can.

"And I'm on vacation, too."

As the evening wore on, he and Sheppard took turns feeding the fire, and Ronon kept his eyes and ears open. It was something he'd learned young and done all his life, skills he'd honed to a fine edge during his years as a Runner. He wanted to relax, but there was something – even in the air around them – some disturbance. If John sensed it, he didn't seem bothered by it, so Ronon tried to let it go.

"What kind of sports did you have on Sateda?" Sheppard was changing the subject, he figured, to try to get him to loosen up. By now, even though Sheppard was only as much an open book as he allowed, Ronon knew some of the dog-eared and smudged pages by heart. "Every kid on Earth grows up playing some kind of sport."

"Even McKay?"

John huffed a laugh. "I'm sure even Rodney participated in something athletic – if nothing more than running to front of the line."

"What line?"

"Nothing… never mind."

"Training was our sport," Ronon said after taking several generous swallows. "As initiates, we'd have games among our classes, and when we were older, we had games between the academies. It was still fun, but everything was meant to teach you something… about your opponent, about life, about yourself."

"Well, you'll have fun tomorrow, I guarantee it – nothing like catching a wave and showing it who's boss."

"What if it shows you?" John turned to him. The look on his face dared Ronon to ask another question like that before they were back in Atlantis – a dare he'd probably take several times. Picking on Sheppard was way too much fun.

"Well, that's bound to happen. When it does, you just paddle back out there and catch another one."

He grinned at Sheppard and swirled the beer around in his hand. John didn't fool him. There was no fun for fun's sake with him. Take any day with McKay around, where one of them had to be better at something as trivial as knowledge of comic book heroes. He'd studied a few of the surfing magazines Sheppard had given him and had listened to Sheppard talk about what it was like. The wave was just another opponent, something to best, and he was looking more forward to it than ever.

~~~

There was sleep and dreams of cool sheets, and then there was the dull thud of a knee hitting the ground beside him. Felt as well as heard, it roused him immediately. Ronon went to push up, but the knifepoint was already at his throat, another knee planted painfully in the small of his back.

The strong light from the moon bathed the ground around him the color of Wraithskin. He'd opted to sleep outside, still not being able to shake what Sheppard called his spidey-senses. "Not funny, Sheppard…"

"Your companion is asleep." The words fell into the air like gravel from a cliff. "Arms out where I can see your hands."

He squirmed beneath the weight pinning him, thought about going for it and rolling over. The voice stopped him.

"Move other than I command, and I _will_ use this."

The edge of the knife scraped twice across his skin as a reminder. But more than that, something dark and familiar pinged inside his chest and slid out into his veins with the adrenaline. Thinking he had little choice, Ronon did as he was told.

"Who are you?" asked the intruder.

When Ronon rolled his head to the side to make it easier to speak, the knife moved with him. Before he could utter a word, the intruder let out a gasp. Ronon tasted metal in his mouth as the tip of the knife traced around the regimental tattoo.

"You are Satedan?"

First Ronon's blood ran cold, then it pounded inside his head – not unlike the feeling of cutting his way through some forest on foot, desperate to escape.

"A Specialist?" The man was more urgent now, his knee pressing harder. "Your name!"

Still blind to the person who belonged to the voice, Ronon's mind raced along with his heart. The man could be Wraith, though he suspected no Wraith would be this chatty. "You first," he growled under the man's weight. This time, he felt the prick of the blade tip, felt his skin hug the point and mistook a trickle of sweat for blood.

"I'd say your insolence is unwarranted." The intruder's breath was soured with traces of metal; his garments smelled of dirt and sweat and urine. "Try again."

"Ronon Dex," he gritted.

The knifepoint retreated for a second and the pressure on his kidney eased, but only for a moment, then both were back with a vengeance.

"Impossible." The force of delivery splattered the word into his ear and onto his face. "Specialist Dex was taken captive by the Wraith. No one survives that, not even a—"

The pressure once again gave way, but this time too easily. The smell of sweet sea breezes and firearms rode alongside the stench, and the sound coming from above him now was choked and desperate, taken over by another voice.

"This one did."

Taking his advantage, Ronon rolled from beneath his attacker. Scrambling to his knees, he caught the glint of metal and the flashlight Sheppard tossed his way.

"You okay?"

"I'm good," Ronon replied. He stood and turned the beam on the intruder, revealing a face much older than he expected. Lined, dirty, and defiant, along with the frazzled white hair and white scruff covering the man's chin, it was quite an odd match for the powerful voice.

Sheppard's chokehold kept the man's attitude at bay. He was dressed in standard issue agrarian – tans and dark browns, non-descript and filthy. Ronon shone the light on the ground at the man's feet, to where the beam glinted off a blade Ronon recognized as a Taisul. He blinked at the handle of carved Tasis horn. Unique for a fighting blade, it was a knife commonly used by Satedan Masters and Generals.

Keeping his eyes forward, Ronon scooped up the knife and gave it a closer look.

"What have we got, here?" Sheppard asked, then addressed the intruder with, "I think he owes us an explanation, not to mention an apology for disturbing our beauty sleep." The man did not struggle in Sheppard's arms; he only laughed.

Laughter that could have been thunder, it shook the ground where Ronon stood. His insides ran cold again. Taking a step closer, he held the beam up to the man's face. "Dalus?" His heart began to crash against his ribs again.

"You two know each other?" Sheppard's amusement colored his voice. "Talk about your happenstance."

"Specialist Ronon Dex." The intruder made a casual attempt to pull out of Sheppard's grip. "You were said to be dead."

"So were you. Let him go," he said to Sheppard.

Once free, the man remained motionless as Ronon advanced on him, bringing the Taisul to his throat. "But not before you plundered what you could and ran away like the mangy cur you—"

"Whoa… hey, wait a minute." Sheppard stopped him with a hand to the chest. "I thought you guys were friendly."

Ronon continued to glare into the eyes of the man from his past. "I'm not friends with cowards," he said, enunciating each word as if they left a bad taste in his mouth. He half expected the man to cringe as he pressed the blade tighter against the sagging, whiskered skin, but Dalus never even blinked.

"I am no coward."

"Look, Ronon… how about we let the man talk. You've got his weapon, what harm can he do?"

Dalus' eyes danced in the green-blue light. "Indeed, Specialist Dex. What harm can I do?"

Pictures crowded Ronon's mind, tumbling one over another just as they used to do as a boy listening to Dalus' tales. He hadn't thought of the academy in years and now the memories flooded him. Rakai and Hemi. Boys away from the city, the chail fields they played in, the orchards, and the old barn converted for their use as an arena.

He could feel the grin fluttering at the corner of his mouth. He cut his eyes at Sheppard. "You really don't want to know." Turning from Sheppard's blank look, Ronon embraced the old man. "It's good to see you," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. He held the man out at arm's length to look at him. "Dalus taught me – when I was a kid, before my training with Kell. I was his star."

"And my biggest troublemaker," the man replied. Something in Dalus' eyes pulled at Ronon. This couldn't be the face of a coward, a thief. He could see clearly the strong, tanned face it once was, as if time had never passed, and hair the color of jet always twisted into a single braid down his back.

"Since Ronon seems to have lost his manners, I'm Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard." Sheppard didn't extend his hand or put away his sidearm. "How about we all have a seat," he suggested, scratching his head. "Where we can see the whites of each other's eyes, because right now, I don't know whether to tie you up or offer you a beer."

"Tie him up." Ronon looked at Sheppard and nodded to be sure he understood. "I said it was good to see him, not that I trusted him."

"It seems I came a bit unprepared for prisoners, Ronon." Sheppard stood there in his tee shirt, BDU pants, and bare feet.

Ronon whipped off his belt and handed it over. "Make do."

"Sorry about this," he told Dalus.

"You don't have to apologize to him. He'd do the same to you—he stays that way until I know why he's here."

~~~

The sky overhead had waned into a deep indigo. From his knowledge of Pegasus skies, Ronon estimated the time at very early in the morning – hours before sunrise. The adrenaline rush was enough to keep Ronon awake, but Sheppard obviously needed coffee, yawning as he tossed a few more branches on the still-hot coals.

"I do realize how some on Sateda must have viewed me, the way I left notwithstanding." Dalus sat on a rock near the fire, hands behind him, and his knees bent close to his chest. He'd been less that cooperative in answering Ronon's questions.

"You disappeared. No word. Gone with the cover of night. That's a coward's exit."

"There was good reason for that, I assure you, Rishy." The endearment slipped past Ronon's ears and became a lump in his throat before he could throw up his wall. No one had called him that in years. He hoped to hell Sheppard hadn't heard. "What do you know of the Massanti Protate?" Dalus asked.

"A group of loyalists charged with protecting the culture and legacies of Sateda?"

"A group of loyal Satedans, bound by sacred trusts many years ago, formed before your grandfather and his before that."

"I thought that was a myth. All the artifacts were kept in the Great Hall, or in the towns and villages."

"Relics, art, yes, but not everything."

"What do you mean?"

Dalus took a deep breath; Ronon could hear the rattle in his chest from where he was sitting. It sent Dalus into a fit of coughing, finally causing him to hawk spit on the ground.

Sheppard got up and went over to the man. "Ronon, come on," he said.

Ronon shrugged and waved his hand in their direction. John removed the belt holding Dalus' hands behind his back. "You want a beer?"

Dalus declined and put his free hand inside his jacket. Ronon immediately drew his weapon, but the man only took out a round glass container. It shone an icy blue in the semi-darkness. Dalus unstoppered the small flask and took a sip, licking his lips after swallowing. Ronon said nothing as the man carefully fitted the stopper back into place and returned the container to his pocket.

"Do you Remember your studies, Ronon? Before Sateda became industrialized, before we began to share knowledge with other cultures? We began as a mystical society. Our deities were of the land underfoot as the giver of life and of the sky above as the watcher. We developed knowledge, of course, sciences, mathematics, languages, but the mystic cultures of our ancestors never completely died out. They thrived in an underbelly of secrecy and caution."

"When you say mystical, you mean like sorcerers and soothsayers?" Sheppard asked.

Ronon couldn't see Dalus' expression as he turned to address Sheppard, but he could envision it.

"I am speaking of those with foreknowledge, yes, and of others. Imbued with powers and instincts from the Ancients. Art and architecture, physical laws of the galaxy, travel through time, weaponry, and alchemy. I understand you are both suspicious of many of these things," he said, facing the fire again. "You are men of your own beliefs, of strength, war, and logic. But there are lines between the physical and mystical worlds that can be blurred with the appropriate knowledge and practice. The Massanti brotherhood spent many centuries perfecting this knowledge."

"Then, you're saying it's not all lost… hasn't been destroyed or fallen into the hands of the Wraith…"

Sheppard cut in, "What he's saying is part of Sateda's culture was saved by a brotherhood of religious fanatics who just happen to drop by uninhabited planets on their magical mystery tours. What we want to know is why?"

The hair on Ronon's arms stood on end as heat rushed to his cheeks. Dalus seemed to ponder the question before answering. "Stated in that way, I can understand your concern; however, that would be a fair assessment."

Ronon had always given Sheppard a wide berth on what he thought about the religions and practices of the Pegasus galaxy, but John surprised him now by flinging the dregs of his coffee at the fire, then standing.

"Been there, done that, and didn't even get the ZPM for my trouble, so if you guys will excuse me…"

"Genii?" Dalus asked, turning to Ronon.

Ronon looked up and grinned at Sheppard's sour look. "Tau'ri," he replied.

"Indeed! And so distrustful." He reached again for his flask.

"Listen, old man, you're Ronon's friend and all, fine, and I get that you've been hiding out for a while, but this is the real world. The Wraith are real bad-ass motherfuckers, not to mention the humans who worship them – in some villages you can't tell the players without a scorecard. So you'll forgive me a little skepticism of strangers saying they can see the future and turn a tin cup into…"

Sheppard didn't finish his sentence. Dalus was on his feet in an instant, twisting Sheppard's arm behind his back, knife at Sheppard's throat.

"Dalus!"

"Ronon, I think we're gonna need to rethink that whole giving folks back their weapons thing."

"I have fought Wraith with my bare hands," Dalus said. "And you would do well to learn, young man, that old does not mean feeble."

"Yeah, I got that," Sheppard squawked.

"Dalus," Ronon said again. "He didn't mean any disrespect, did you, Sheppard?"

The man released Sheppard and walked away.

"I haven't made up my mind yet," John replied in that nasally whine he used sometimes with McKay. "Besides, if I recall, it seems you were distrustful of strangers once. Jesus, first, you're at the guy's throat yourself and now you're defending him."

Ronon took a step closer, chest puffed up into Sheppard's personal space. "Distrustful for a reason," he said, glaring at Sheppard. "Or are you jealous… You were the same way with Tyre and the others. I told you then, I can look out for myself."

The air between them trembled with a flash of metal, the thunk of the knife hitting home in the tree beyond settling like a lump in Ronon's chest. "Boys!"

One word. One delivery. One voice, as if it had traveled across time and arisen from the very marrow of Ronon's bones, made him back down. He worked his jaw back and forth as he stared down Sheppard.

"Right," John said. "Distrustful for a reason, but one that turned out to be unfounded."

"Yeah, and you're making my point for me."

"Ronon, I do not mind that Colonel Sheppard – that either of you – is wary of me. I am old, haven't seen a mirror in months, and I smell. In fact, I prefer his suspicions – at least I know where I stand. It is those who welcome too easily that one should treat with caution. Your friend does not know me, nor I him."

"No, but he knows me. I would never…" His voice trailed off at John's look, which could have and should have been less like a parent addressing an unruly child.

"Fine, do as you please," Sheppard said. He turned around, the sandy scrub sliding underfoot as he stalked toward his tent.

Dalus made his way to the fire, calling after him. "Indeed, if the Colonel wishes to retire, we shall have a long talk together. You will let me sleep here tonight by your fire and in the morning I shall be on my way." He pulled the flask once again from the folds of cloth and took a tiny sip before sitting down.

Sheppard reappeared moments later and clapped Ronon on the back before sitting down himself. "I'd say we all got off on the wrong foot. Why don't we just start over?"

Ronon grinned and ducked his head. John's curiosity and need for control would never have let him sleep.

"Besides, never let it be said that John Sheppard missed a party." He pointed to the flask. "What's with the Romulan ale?"

Dalus extended his arm, offering Sheppard the small glass bottle. He took it, unstoppered it, held it to his nose, and then looked at Ronon.

"Is that Rylka?" Ronon asked the old man.

"Make it myself. Not traditional, of course, but a fair reproduction if I do say.

He turned back to Sheppard. "Rylka is liquor made from the rynchani plant."

"Is it safe?"

Ronon's smile widened. "Depends."

John sniffed again and handed the flask over. "You first."

Ronon brought the bottle to his lips as the aroma of anise tickled his nose. He closed his eyes as the liquid slid down his throat like dancing fire. He waited for it, the sudden and deceptive sweet aftertaste; his lips parted for it, the flavor spreading over his tongue. He swallowed again and said to Dalus, "Pretty damn close."

"I do the best I can with the ingredients I'm able to procure. Rynchani isn't available everywhere."

"You travel a lot?" Sheppard asked.

"I have."

Sheppard reached for the flask, lifted it tentatively as Ronon and Dalus looked on, then took a drink. Ronon had forgotten to mention that he might want to start slow and watched amused as John's eyes went wide once he swallowed.

"Now wait," he said as he retrieved the flask and handed it over to Dalus.

Sheppard moved his tongue back and forth between his lips and cleared his throat. "Sweet," he said.

"Potent," said Ronon.

"Are the rumors true?" Dalus asked, pocketing the Rylka. "A Runner?"

The word was a dark grip around Ronon's heart.

"Leave it," Sheppard warned.

"I can speak for myself," Ronon said, still not looking at either of them. "It's true and it's everything you ever heard about it."

"And Ronon survived it," John added.

"And that's the end of it," Ronon stated, throwing a look at Dalus.

The popping of the fire, the swirling whistle of the wind, and the constant roll of the surf served as excellent backdrops for catching up. Their Conversation was still somewhat guarded, but flowed more freely than before. Dalus explained that as a member of the Protate, he had feared what the Wraith and other enemies might do with the treasures, so he not so much plundered as secreted, he'd said. Still, he'd made his participation seem more like armed security than anything else. He had accompanied many of the brotherhood as they had fanned out across Pegasus using the ring of the ancestors.

The surface warmth from the fire kept the chill in the air at bay, and melted Ronon's cold shoulder a bit. Talk eventually turned to how Sheppard and the new Lanteans had come to find Ronon.

"They took me in," Ronon said. "Gave me a home—made me feel like I belonged." But there was no more talk of those seven years, just what he'd done since – fighting against the Wraith, battles, and missions.

"How is it the two of you find yourselves here alone?" Dalus asked at length.

Sheppard explained that they'd earned themselves some downtime. "Actually, there were supposed to be others with us, but things changed at the last minute. We're just here to soak up some sun and suds and surf some wild water."

"Surf?"

"Riding waves," John said, pointing toward the beach. "Ocean waves on a… board."

From Dalus' expression, he didn't seem impressed, though Ronon thought he and Sheppard could have a nice long conversation about the mystic qualities of surfing.

"Well, it's a board that's… the buoyancy allows for…"

"It's a sport," Ronon cut in.

"Ah, sport. You are here to have fun and enjoy your leisure."

"Exactly."

"Do you remember, Ronon? The games?"

He nodded but didn't reply, ducking his head again.

"So you did have sports. I've been trying to get him to tell me what kinds of things he did for fun. Stick fighting, knife wielding, tinkering with a triple-barrel shotgun, all just seem like such aggressive activities."

"I would say to you, Colonel, that it's all relative. As a fighter, especially a fighter in training, everything in your life is to prepare you and to keep you alert and ready."

"Yeah… doesn't sound like much fun, though."

"I'm certain Ronon would disagree. His training was different from yours, of course, but I think there are many similarities."

"Well, I'd never go so far as to call a twenty-five mile hike in full gear fun. Now flying… that's another story."

Ronon looked up. Dalus' eyes twinkled once more in the firelight. The thing was, he did remember. His academy years had been some of the best of his life. Being apart from his family was the downside, but what he'd built with his fellow initiates, bonds formed from nothing, had become a different type of family. Pushing himself, working and sacrificing to please his Task Master, to win the accolades of his fellow students as well as their trust and respect. It had all made him the man he was.

Easier to forget perhaps were the other influences in his life. His flair for language and art had come from his mother, as well as the other women he'd been involved with, even Dalus himself. Easier, because those seven years had robbed him of his desire for that part of himself. It may have been lost forever if he hadn't seen that first sunset of freedom from the East Pier or found kindness in another woman's eyes.

Of course, not every woman had touched his life in a way that filled him or that allowed words to form inside his head from nothing but their soft touch and beauty. Some hadn't cared about his heart or his mind, and he hadn't cared about theirs. They'd only wanted in his bed, satisfied to be consumed by the heat of his passion. And then he'd found a woman who had wanted it all.

 _You are more than brute force…_ Whenever Melena said that to him, he believed it, didn't shy away from it. He had lived to prove it to her every day. He had never felt freer with anyone – a freedom to live the way he wanted, to enjoy the many ways their bodies fit together, and the curious and adventurous way they looked at life and their future. But clouds appear in the bluest of skies. Dark clouds of stubbornness and defiance and every reason why he loved her gathered in the sound of her voice, refusing him. Choosing.

Running had given him the perfect reason to put all of that away. To keep his mind away from the memories, away from that other side of himself, closing it off out of necessity, and hardening himself for the fight and for the inevitable separation from human contact. He left room for only one thing to guide him silently during those seven years… that belief that he was more. Because he'd needed that. It was clean air amid the chaos of running, fresh clothes, a hot meal, and a hot bath, something inside to make him feel human and feed his dogged determination to set himself apart from the Wraith who hunted him.

He looked across from his old family friend to Sheppard. Sheppard was the reason he was here now. Sheppard understood. Without words, without feelings or showy forms of anything, they'd formed a bond as strong as any he'd forged with his other initiates. And all the man wanted in return was to know about Satedan games. "How about knife tumbling?" Ronon suggested, still grinning.

~~~

Sheppard twirled the knife in his hands. "You're not serious," he said. His expression was one of expecting Ronon or Dalus to let him in on the joke at any minute.

"You don't have drinking games on Earth?" Ronon asked. They stood in a sandy patch away from the fire, closer to the dunes where he could see the foam from the breaking waves clearly – an eerie glow that rolled one after the other towards the shore.

"Yes, we do, but ours don't end up with someone losing an eye – if we're lucky – or a finger. We just get drunk, act like idiots and pass out, but I sense that's not what we're going for here."

"Wuss."

"I need my hands for steering and shooting and playing video golf and… stuff."

"That's why there are alternate actions," Dalus said. "You may choose the challenge, or choose to reveal something about yourself in answer to a question or in the removal of a garment."

"Truth or Dare meets strip knife play? That's not even close to my current kink list." He blinked at Ronon. "You're kidding, right?"

"We'll start out easy. Here." Ronon took the knife from Sheppard.

"And that's another thing… look at that blade, and your hands are bigger…"

Ronon clucked at him. "The next thing you'll say is it's too dark."

"Now that you mention it..."

"I have just the thing," said Dalus. He pulled back the sleeve of his cloak and slid another knife out of the leather cuff wrapped around his forearm. "Much more appropriate, I think," he said showing off the shorter blade and handle. The handle was wrapped in strips of leather Ronon was sure were worn enough to feel like second skin.

"So that's where you get it," Sheppard said from the corner of his mouth.

Ronon exchanged blades with Dalus. "Just watch carefully," he told Sheppard. "Since you're new at this, we won't hold you to the number of spins, but you have to get the rest exactly or you lose." Ronon studied him. Faced with the challenge, there was no way John would walk away. It wasn't in him, and the danger made it all the more sweet and enticing – not to mention that Sheppard would gladly lose a finger rather than reveal something personal.

The knife cut the air easily; it spun slowly, blade catching the light, lost momentum a few feet above Ronon's head, and took the same path back down. Ronon smacked his palm twice against his chest and easily caught the knife by its handle.

"You may now choose to reproduce the toss or forego the challenge and lose a secret or an article of clothing. Choose the challenge and fail -- you will have to take a drink." Dalus dug into one of the pockets of his jacket and produced a full flask of Rylka.

Sheppard pulled another face, but accepted the knife from Ronon.

"I'll give you a minute to get a feel for it first," Ronon said.

"That's mighty big of you," John returned. He flipped the knife, smacked his chest, but muffed the catch – pulling his hand back at the last second.

Dalus handed over the Rylka. Ronon knew Sheppard had taken a drink by the look on his face. The knife then passed to Dalus who executed the challenge flawlessly.

His challenge was a higher toss with a run of hand signals before allowing the knife to hit the ground, blade first, between his feet.

"Jesus," Sheppard muttered.

The three men stood under the full moon, blade glinting from time to time, curses floating in the air like curious vapors. A short time later, Ronon was without his shirt, as was Sheppard, who was also missing his belt and a nugget from his past that left Ronon with a weapon for life. Dalus stood by fully clothed.

Once more, Ronon tossed the knife into the air, over his shoulder, high enough to allow him to spin around twice, plant his feet and make the catch – if just a little inelegantly – behind his back. He handed the knife over to Sheppard, brought his hand to his mouth, sucked at the space between his thumb and first finger joint, then spit blood onto the ground.

"Advantage for you, Colonel," Dalus said calmly.

"How so?" Sheppard asked. When he shifted his weight, he swayed at bit while planting his foot.

"Your opponent is injured – you can use that. All you have to do is pass the challenge and you can issue your own – play to that injury."

"See, that's the problem – there's some trick to it." He looked up at Ronon. "I mean there's gotta be a trick."

"The trick is not minding if you miss," Ronon replied.

"As with many Satedan games, the point is to simulate battle and strategy against your opponent. Increasing the difficulty provides the possibility of injury, which is a chance to learn to use other skills."

"Now where have I heard that before?"

"Mirror-Mollo," Ronon said to Dalus, grinning.

The old man's eyes fixed on Sheppard. "You know about Mirror-Mollo?"

"You could say that," John cut his eyes at Ronon. "So, it's a real sport, then?"

"It is a game played in the academies, usually among the most trusted of friends. Otherwise, it is difficult to appreciate the spirit in which each challenge is offered."

"Spirit?"

"As points are won, it is up to the winner to set the next challenge, much like here. It is good competition to be sure. Good for honing skills, helping your fellow student to be the best they can be. It takes a trusted friend to accept the whims of the winner."

"Are you sure we're talking about the same thing? Because all it did for me was make me look dumb while Ronon kicked my ass."

"Ah, you know the game well! We called it Dupe for short, because of the duplication of moves."

"Catchy," John said.

Ronon laughed and Dalus began to laugh with him. It was so much like the laughter Ronon remembered from long ago, until it turned into another fit of coughing. Bad enough to double Dalus over forward; the heavy, wet sound of loose phlegm made Ronon wince. He helped Dalus take out the bottle of Rylka and take another drink. That seemed to calm him.

"You're ill," he said, dread crowding around his heart.

"I am fine. Found myself on the wrong end of some Findur spores a while back. My recovery has been slow, I admit, but it's nothing to concern yourself with." Dalus' eyes were bright and his smile quick. "I never expected to see you again, my boy," he said, taking Ronon by the forearms but stopping short of an actual embrace.

Overhead, the sky had darkened as the moon moved off over the canopy beyond camp. "I can take you back to Atlantis," said Ronon. "We have doctors there, people who can help you."

"That is indeed tempting. I would love to see the city the Ancients abandoned." He looked over to Sheppard then back into Ronon's eyes. "If I cannot heal myself, then what hope is there? No, I will stay. I have only a short time to complete a task and I must attend to it."

"What task? What can we do to help?"

"You can allow me to sleep here by what's left of the fire. In the morning, I'll be on my way and you boys can enjoy your surfing. You should wrap that," he added, nodding toward the shiny dark spot on Ronon's hand. "And your Colonel here should get some sleep." He winked at Ronon.

"Personally, I think we'd have all done well to have gone to bed hours ago," Sheppard said, passing the knife back to Dalus. "I'll get you a blanket from the jumper."

Ronon watched John walk away.

"You have closed many doors," Dalus stated when Sheppard was far away enough not to overhear.

Ronon didn't answer. He was too occupied with fighting the ache of the things he'd lost, his anger at this man for bringing it all back, and his need to help Dalus all at the same time. Yeah, he'd closed a lot of doors; he'd slammed the hell out of every one of them.

"You did not always scoff at my beliefs."

"You didn't spout off with them all the time."

"Of course, I did. I just knew how to hide it better then, or saw more reason to." Dalus had always told his initiates that there was a time and purpose for fighting and that it took more than strength and training to make a warrior. After he'd been chosen to train with Kell, Ronon had heard some were trying to oust Dalus from teaching at the academy. He'd been held in high esteem by some, but had been set apart from the other instructors like a relative no one really wanted to claim. "Have you really abandoned that part of yourself? Do you not feel her?"

Ronon closed his eyes as his throat tightened. He felt her every day.

"Why do you think that is, Rishy? Maybe she's trying to tell you something. If you keep the door closed too long, the room doesn't get used. Instead of being a place of joy and life, it becomes musty and forgotten."

"I want to forget—so would you."

"No, you don't. And because what you had is gone, that is no reason to cut that part of your life away like bad fruit. There are other doors, other rooms. Why did you survive the Wraith if your life wasn't meant to be full?"

Heat crept up across Ronon's shoulders to the base of his neck, wrapping around as if his face was inches from the fire. He could also feel Sheppard. "What're you looking at?" he asked, but the words were quiet and a little defeated.

Sheppard's reply was just as quiet. "Nothing, but the man's got a point."

Ronon looked up and met his eyes. Sheppard handed the blanket to Dalus and said goodnight.

"He is a good friend," said Dalus. "Of course, come morning, we shall find out how he handles his Rylka."

Probably the same as his first time, Ronon thought. At least Sheppard would wake up mostly clothed. He grinned at Dalus and his own memory, thankful the night was over, and hoping by morning, he'd feel less putting his fist through one of the surfboards.

~~~

"He's gone!"

Sheppard raised up on his elbows. "Wha?"

"Dalus. He's gone. Get up, we need to find him."

"He said he had something to do… maybe he's just—"

"Without saying goodbye? Let's move!"

Picking his way through the underbrush, Ronon kept an eye on the branches and bushes for signs of recent travel. Dalus was good; he could disappear like smoke in a shadow if it was necessary. He stopped beside a small tree; the several broken branches staring back at him didn't ease his mind.

"What's up?" asked Sheppard.

Ronon shook his head and looked around at the sunlight shafting through the trees. He couldn't say how far past the clearing they'd come, but figured he'd been tracking about half an hour. From the color and smell of the break in the braches, Dalus had quite a head start – probably had left before the sun had risen. "This is too easy," he said, spying more tracks and heading that way. And that's what worried him.

With Sheppard on his heels, he tried to ignore that half-empty, bottomed out feeling that something was wrong, really wrong. Even though he'd been trained to give that feeling its due, he couldn't be sure whether he was separating his personal needs from any real danger indicators. He'd found a piece of his past that wasn't trying to kill him or profess to be something it wasn't. Could it be that he wasn't ready to let that go?

The ground beneath their feet began to get softer and greener. He lifted his head and took a deep breath. "We're near water," he said. The aromas were heady – sweet-smelling pollen and the verdant lush smell of moving deeper inside the interior. This place was probably a real paradise. Too bad he didn't have time to appreciate it.

The sound of rushing water reached him before they came up on the bank. "Didn't we pass over a stream or something coming in from the gate?"

"Yeah, nothing real big, though," John replied. "Good chance we won't lose him."

Nearing the bank, the trees began to thin out, giving him a better look at the mossy ground. There were tracks all around them. "We've got company."

Sheppard pulled up beside him. "Wraith?

"Genii from the looks of the tracks." He looked off in the direction they led.

"How do you know?"

When he was young, there'd been enough on again-off again allied trusts between the Satedans and the Genii that he'd recognize the tread of the boot anywhere. He gave Sheppard a smug smile. "I was tracking when all you cared about was getting into some girl's pants on a Friday night. Besides, the Genii are clumsy."

The tracks ended in a small clearing. Sheppard pointed to a pathway that led away from the open area. At the end of the path were the burnt leavings of a fire pit and a makeshift thatchwork door covering the opening to a cave. Searching the ground, there'd been attempts to clean away any signs of habitation, but something about the thatch bugged Ronon. "Should have just painted a big red X on the outside," he said as he walked over and set it aside.

Inside, there were a few garments, bedding, a lantern and candles, several more knives and a gun. Around the walls a little further in, small niches were cut into the rock. They all seemed to be empty.

"Something's not right."

"Maybe he's off getting breakfast," John said. "The tracks could be nothing."

"You don't believe that any more than I do," Ronon said. He moved past Sheppard and back outside. He walked the small perimeter until he found more tracks. "This way."

After another few hundred feet, Ronon checked the sky for bearings, then looked back in the direction they'd come. "They're heading for the gate," he said.

"Then let's go back for the jumper."

"There's no time. These tracks are fresh; if we hurry, we can catch them."

Sheppard got a sour look on his face. "Then tell the fairy chorus line in my head to lay off."

Ronon grinned and thwapped him on the side of the head. "Keep up," he said.

"How many you figure?" Sheppard asked, trotting alongside.

"Small squad… six, seven. They have a purpose, maybe a tactical force."

"For what? What do they want with Dalus?"

"Don't know." What he did know was that somehow Dalus had known, left the camp early to keep him and Sheppard out of it.

The undergrowth began to get thin again as they neared another clearing. Ronon could see the top of the stargate. At the edge of the tree line, he slowed and put out his hand, motioning to Sheppard. They could hear voices.

Picking their way to the clearing, the open field spread out before them like a training pitch. Sunlight bounced off the Genii weapons. Ronon counted five Genii soldiers – two on point, one walking with Dalus, and two more at their six. They were still fifty or so yards from the gate.

He looked over at Sheppard.

"You don't mean just…"

"Got no choice—can't go around, they'll be through the gate by then. There's only five of them," Ronon said easily. "We get a good start—maybe even pick off a couple before they know what's going on."

"Pickett's Charge." Sheppard blew out a breath and turned his head toward the field.

"What does that mean?"

"It's a maneuver named after a General in a famous battle in my country's Civil War." Sheppard paused to check the clip in his sidearm. "He led thousands of men across a field from a disadvantaged position right in the face of the enemy."

"I like it already. What happened?"

"What do you think happened?" John sucked in a breath as he hitched up his pants. "Well, hell, let's do it."

Up ahead, one of the soldiers was already working the DHD. "Dalus!" Ronon shouted at him as the ring shimmered blue. He aimed for the one at the gate and fired, but the shot missed. He pointed off to his right and Sheppard headed that way, dodging and firing as he went.

The two Genii at Dalus' six fell. Dalus dropped but the others had caught on and were returning fire. Ronon had his sights on the soldier on point, the one who'd dialed the DHD. He'd gone to retrieve Dalus and had him now, dragging him toward the gate.

Ronon squeezed off another round, but his shot missed the mark and bounced off the gate. Sheppard must have hit the one guarding Dalus, because he was down. As Ronon ran past him, he felt something snag his leg, and the next thing, he was eating grass.

Something hot ripped across his calf as he scrambled to get up. The glint of a blade was the last thing he saw as he kicked out blindly. His boot made a sickening crunch as it connected, and then he was back on his feet.

He could see Dalus fighting with the DHD soldier. Ronon casually looked behind him and fired at the Genii who'd cut him. Facing forward again, he pulled up his blaster and froze. DHD had Sheppard cold but Sheppard wasn't returning fire.

"Sheppard!" Running as fast as his leg would allow, he started in John's direction, firing as he ran, anything to distract the soldier. A shot rang out, echoing deep into Ronon's chest – but Sheppard didn't fall.

He whipped his head around in time to see Dalus fall to his knees. Ronon's vision ran red as he fired at Dalus' Genii attacker – a dead on hit that knocked the soldier back against the gate, but not through it. That left Sheppard.

The Genii was down and when Ronon got closer, he saw the Taisul buried to the hilt in the man's back. He pulled up short and aimed his blaster.

"Goddamn weapon jammed," Sheppard shouted. His voice seemed much too loud because everything else had gone much too quiet.

"You're hit." Ronon stared at John's ripped shirt and the dark red leaking down his arm.

"You don't look so good yourself." John nodded toward the gate. "Neither does Dalus."

They both turned and ran to the gate. Dalus had slumped to his knees, one hand clutching his side, blood seeping between his fingers to soak the cloth around the spot. With his other hand, he was trying to remove something from around his neck, an amulet.

Ronon ripped off his own shirt and helped Dalus to lie down, then pressed the shirt to the wound.

Dalus finally got the amulet from his neck and pointed to the Genii on the ground beside him, the chain and pendant swinging from his outstretched hand. "The bag, Ronon." The soldier had a large canvas pack slung over his shoulder.

Sheppard dropped down beside them and slid the bag off the dead Genii's arm. "How bad?"

Ronon looked deep into Sheppard's eyes. They both knew the answer to that question.

"We can get him through the gate, back to Atlantis," John offered, starting to get up.

Ronon stopped him. "Dalus?" He locked eyes with the man as he pressed harder on the wound.

Dalus shook his head. "I have not yet completed my task." He pointed to the bag again.

Sheppard opened it, took out a handful of tiny scrolls. "What are they," he asked.

Ronon's heart leapt to his throat and stayed there. "You carry the secrets of Sateda?"

The old man tried to take a deep breath. "I do. And if I find myself unable to execute my mission, it is my duty to find a suitable replacement." He pressed the amulet to Ronon's chest until Ronon took it from him. "I carry the most sensitive information contained in the archives – what the soldiers were after. Knowledge that could give the Genii a tremendous boost in retaking their position as a force in the galaxy."

"You've been taking this information and, what, hiding it?" Sheppard asked.

"Protecting it – placing it on certain worlds so that it would be found in time. It's all there," he said, pointing to the bag. "It has always been the Protate's wish that Satedan culture live on long after we're gone. These I want you to keep with you, Ronon. I cannot think of any place more suited to hold this knowledge or anyone more fitting to continue this…"

Dalus began to cough and shake in Ronon's arms. Ronon held him and lifted his head.

"But I don't know anything about—"

"Nothing to know. Your love and loyalty is all that's required." He pointed to Sheppard. "Colonel, you are injured."

"Flesh wound." He put a hand on Dalus' leg. "Looks like we're all gonna make it to fight another day, huh?"

"Actually, it feels like a good day to die… for me, anyway. And I much prefer this over waiting for death – with its pain and spitting blood and shitting myself." Dalus began to cough again. Tiny flecks of blood dotted his chin and the front of his shirt. Of course, Dalus would think that; he'd taught his students it was an honor to die in battle. Wasn't that what everyone of his generation believed?

"Hold this," Ronon said, trying to get John's attention. "Sheppard!"

John put the bag aside and took over putting pressure on Dalus' wound. Ronon pulled a slender knife from one of his dreads, slid the blade under a strip of leather wrapped around one of the braids, and pulled the strip free.

"Remind me never to sleep with you," Sheppard deadpanned.

"Count on it," Ronon said, just as dryly and grinned as Dalus shook with silent laughter. Ronon then cut a piece from Dalus' shirt and folded the cloth. He moved around to John's side and tied the makeshift compress to his arm.

Sheppard was thanking Dalus for saving his life – at least he was working up to it, in that way most of the Tau'ri had of using fifty words to say two. And when Dalus wasn't stopping him to put them both out of their misery, Ronon turned around. He swallowed hard, but made sure his hand didn't tremble as he closed his teacher's eyes.

Sheppard sat back on his heels, hands stained with Dalus' blood resting on his thighs. He let out a long breath and sagged into Ronon. "You okay?" he asked. "Your leg?"

"I'm good—just a scratch." Ronon blinked out over Dalus, past the dead Genii, out to where the sun kissed off the gate, thinking about what lay on the other side. "Genii must have been looking for him."

"We need to get out of here – even if they didn't already call for backup, what do you think's gonna happen when the wormhole shuts down?"

"We'll just dial up somewhere else. How much time do we have?"

Sheppard looked at his watch. "Call it twenty-five minutes, give or take."

Ronon pushed himself up and extended his hand to Sheppard. "We got work to do."

~~~

"Figured the Rylka would do the trick," Ronon said, his voice calm. Not a hint of scrambling to throw together a burial platform, gathering enough dry brush, and then pouring the Rylka over Dalus and the rest. "One shot top and bottom and it was good to go."

He could feel Sheppard at his side, hear his breathing. He'd double-timed it back to the jumper.

"Stopped by the old man's place." He sounded a little winded. "Who'd you call?"

Ronon looked to his side. Sheppard was holding another large canvas bag. "Spacegate – figured we might get lucky when they try the addresses and walk through."

Sheppard looked thoughtful. "Found his stash of firewater and some more of those scrolls," he said and handed a few to Ronon. "And this." He was holding a device that fit neatly in his palm; it looked something like a lifesigns detector with its small screen.

Ronon recognized the device immediately then shook his head and smiled. "Genii bastards didn't even get what they came for." His heart swelled. That was the reason Dalus had practically made a target of the cave and for the dance around the area. "McKay's gonna wet himself when he sees this," Ronon snickered, but then he turned serious again. "Next time we'll bring McKay, the others, too."

"Next time," Sheppard echoed.

Even though next time would have to wait a while. It wouldn't take the Genii long to catch on – they'd be back. Of course, the smoldering burial mound and five bloated soldiers might spook them some. Still, they'd bring their task forces and search the cave and anywhere else. "You fixed it, right?"

"Clean as a whistle. Took everything I could find and burned the rest."

Ronon nodded. He opened one of the scrolls John had given him; it contained a poem he remembered from his days at the academy. It was fitting eulogy for Dalus, a wrenching blend of warfare and redemption. Ronon read the words aloud, hearing them inside his head as he'd heard them years ago.

"…And so to this, the shadow – That at night – Will beckon me toward some ancient death – When life has lost its paltry appetite – I will seek relief in the stillness of each remaining breath."*

He quietly re-rolled the scroll.

John reached out then pulled back as if he wasn't really sure what to do. He finally patted Ronon on the shoulder, nodded toward the gate. "Let's book… our meter's running.

"Sure you don't want to say something."

"You know what I think about this stuff," John answered. He sighed. "Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster at your side, kid… or a Taisul.”

Ronon snorted, looked down, and studied him. "And you didn't reassign Teldy and Bascombe to babysit the climatologists."

He knew that look on John's face; he and his cousins had used it often as kids.

"Maybe I'll just send you next time," Sheppard said. He took one of the branches they hadn't burned and scattered what was left of the ashes.

"You should work on that clinging nature of yours," Ronon chided, really feeling his smile for the first time all day.

Sheppard tossed the branch and headed for the jumper. "Let's get out of here—I'll let you beat me at Dupe when we get back if it'll make you feel better."

"Let me?"

They were pushing their wormhole window down to the last seconds. Strapped in, Sheppard's hand hovered over the DHD. "Ready to take the long way home?"

Home. "Hell, yeah."


End file.
